Comatose Conversations
by PureFury
Summary: When a patient is comatose, doctors often suggest that friends and family talk to them. Many people believe that the comatose person can hear, and remember, what was said to them. Despite hesitation, Lestrade gives it a go.


Written for this prompt/request:

"Can you write some mystrade? Where Mycroft gets shot while saving Greg and ends up in a coma, and Greg talks to comatose Mycroft everyday. Cute, fluffy, angst? All up to you. Thanks!"

* * *

Time seemed to almost pass in slow motion as the criminal lifted the gun and pointed it directly at Greg Lestrade as though he knew the man was essential to the operation. Greg himself was far too busy barking orders at fellow officers to notice when the cornered man reached around to pull a gun from the back of his waist band.

Mycroft saw no time to warn his partner, standing a few metres to his right, so instead ran the 6 feet before leaping in front of the shorter man. As he did, the sound of a bullet ripping it's way from the barrel of a gun tore across the area.

I'm going to die, Mycroft thought instantly. His life didn't flash before his eyes, as was a popular misconception. Instead, as time slowed further, his eyes stuck to Lestrade's as he felt the bullet rip through his thigh. Pain spiked through him, seemingly radiating out from the wound. His eyes screwed up in pain as another shot rang out.

This time the bullet penetrated in his torso. Unable to stand the pain, Mycroft collapsed onto the floor barely a foot in front of his boyfriend. He hadn't even hit the ground before armed police were swarming the criminal but Lestrade paid no attention to them.

Instead, he dropped to his knee to cradle the tall man's head in his lap, off the cold concrete. Shaking hands applied pressure to the wound in his torso, like he'd been taught, which was around waist height on the man's right side. The policeman blinked down at the still body in his arms as his mind felt sluggish and found it too hard to process anything. In the back of him mind, he noted that his eyes stung but that wasn't important now.

"Myc?" He shook the body slight, "Myc? Come on, Baby." He whispered sweetly. He rarely called his boyfriend pet names but sometimes he didn't want anything else labelled on the man. Suddenly something clicked within him, maybe it was his policing instincts but he started calling out for help, "Help! Someone, call an ambulance! Please, help!" Of course an ambulance had been phoned the moment the gunshot sounded but Greg's sluggish brain couldn't think it through, "It's okay. I've got you." He whispered against Mycroft's hair.

Obviously, the ambulance arrived on scene astonishingly quickly but to those few gathered around, it felt like a millennia. It took a moment for the paramedics to prise Mycroft from Greg's vice like grip. The policeman didn't notice when the medical staff shot concerned glances at each other. There definitely shouldn't have been this much blood.

-/\\-/\\-/\\-

The doctors, staff and other visitors assured Lestrade that this wasn't his fault but nothing they said could convince the detective. He knew he was to blame for Mycroft falling into this state; he knew as soon as the doctor, in her long white coat, began explaining the government official's injuries.

At the scene, Greg's main priority was the bullet wound in his boyfriend's abdomen as his brain instantly thought of all the vital organs harboured inside. Little did he realise that the leg injury was the most severe. Maybe if he'd been paying more attention then he would have noticed the unusually large puddle of crimson that was seeping through Mycroft's black work trousers.

He didn't realise that the bullet had cut through a main artery which supplied blood, directly from the heart, all the way around the body. Even though it seemed of lesser importance at the time, this wound would be the one that would kill Mycroft Holmes if the unconscious man didn't fight.

Mycroft was sleeping. It seemed childish to think that way but who would voluntarily say that their partner was in a coma which they may never awaken from. Lestrade was a coward, he couldn't face that, not yet. So, for now, Mycroft was merely sleeping.

His hand was still warm as it was constantly held within his boyfriend's. Greg wouldn't leave it for even a moment so the appendage had no time to cool. He didn't want to miss the moment when Mycroft woke up... If he woke up.

"Myc?" Lestrade muttered, "Can you hear me?... The doctor said that patients often recalled parts of a conversation once they woke up..." There was a brief since, "I feel stupid. I don't know if I believe it." Lestrade made a decision not to talk to his unconscious partner for the rest of that day.

-/\\-/\\-/\\-

"Myc?" Greg's voice was low and rough, "God... This is ridiculous... Can you hear me? I hope you can. I really do hope so." There was a moment where the lump in his throat became too much to bare making him stop and breathe, "I just feel so alone without you. Oh, God, it was all my fault... I still can't work half those functions on my Blackberry, you know," He huffed a laugh, "You'd get so stroppy when I spend 10 minutes trying to connect to the Internet." So what if he had to wipe a tear, nobody was there to watch anyway.

The beeping of machines was the only answer. A loud sniff filled the air as Lestrade pulled his hands over his weary face and sighed, "I'm sorry, Mycroft."

-/\\-/\\-/\\-

"Sherlock visited with John today." Lestrade licked his lips, still uncomfortable talking to an unresponsive being,"You know what Sherlock is like, he was clearly upset but instead of allowing himself that, he marched around throwing verbal abuse at the staff. I think he misses you, Myc. In some ways, beneath the sibling rivalry, I think he needs you. Just like I need you." Voice cracking, he scolded his weakness.

The detective peered around the bland room, nothing but dull greys decorated the space. It was almost as though they were striving to make its occupants depressed. Tired heavy eyes slowly peered around the room. Nothing had changed since the last time he'd looked but there was nothing more for the man to do.

His shirt, despite being new today (John had picked some clothes up for him), was already creased but at least it was better than the blood stained one from before.

Lifting Mycroft's knuckles to his face, Greg kissed them lightly before running them over his lips, "John frightened me a little, if I'm being honest." He revealed in his London accent,"He didn't do it on purpose but... He's a doctor and he knows being shot and he just seemed... Concerned, I suppose, when he saw you." He shrugged, "He can read all the doctor jargon on that board and he was concerned so it really showed me that perhaps it might not get better. He tried to reassure me though because he's a nice bloke like that."

Lestrade leant his elbows against his boyfriend's bed as he thought, "He was much better at this than me but being a doctor kinda gives him that advantage... Right?" He didn't know why he waited for a response, "He's probably acclimatised to talking to unconscious patients." There was the sound of a cleaning cart being pushed outside in the corridor, the wheel squeaked loudly, "It will get better... Right? YOU will get better... Right?

Lestrade sighed but he didn't speak anymore that night.

-/\\-/\\-/\\-

Nobody could blame the detective for losing hope, there had been slow levels of recovery but, so far, they'd not managed to conjure any sort of response from his partner. Dark circles stained the skin beneath his eyes and his skin was pale and shiny. On more than one occasion, while walking to the cafeteria or nurses' station, doctors had stopped him and asked if he needed help, thinking that he was a patient wandering around the building. He looked worse than Mycroft but he knew what he was getting himself into when he agreed to sleep on the chair. He couldn't face being in their home alone anyway; it'd feel odd being there without Mycroft.

"Oh, Myc..." He sighed, sitting on the edge of the bed but cautious not to jolt his injuries, "What am I supposed to do? I feel... Lost... Empty? Almost like you're already gone but it can't be like that. You have to wake up for me... At least. I've been on my own so many times in my life but this is the worst. It's painful, Myc." His words shook as he squeezed his partner's hand in desperation. He didn't know what to do, "You can't leave me on my own. Not all alone. Not again."

Letting his head fall against their joint hands, he sobbed, "Please. Please, for me. Please."

-/\\-/\\-/\\-

It had been so long since day one that Lestrade had grown comfortable with his one sided conversations. Staff and friends had only managed to get him home a handful of times but even when they did he'd be back within 5 hours, claiming that he couldn't sleep. It was an awfully large bed to be alone in after all.

Mycroft had improved in leaps and bounds over the last month or so but the doctors reminded the detective that they'd have to wait until the older man awoke before they could truly assess the damage done. Each day was a waiting game now.

Despite this, Greg couldn't stop the hopefulness which blossomed with his chest, "Your mother phoned again today, asking for news and whatever. Obviously, I kept her up to date. She even asked if we'd be going up there for Christmas! Don't worry, I told her that we'd probably just spend Christmas at home this year... I thought that'd be what you'd want."

An hour or so later, Mycroft had begun to move slightly in his sleep and Lestrade swore that his mouth even moved a few times.

Used to the twitching, Greg just continued talking as he looked through his bag for the file Sally had sent over a few days ago, he'd been trying not to miss too much work. Forgetting where he left the file, he began searching by the window sill. He found it there but peered out of the window for a moment. His eyes caught on a small bakery down the road. He'd thought about it on several occasions since being stuck here but spoke his thoughts a loud for the first time.

"Perhaps when you're better and we're on our way home, we can stop off down there." He pointed against the window, "The nurse told me that they do the nicest scones in the whole of London, I thought you'd like that... They do cakes too."

The detective turned around to find Mycoft, eyes open and watching him. Running over to his partner, Greg threw his head back and laughed. He appeared weak and tired but anything was an improvement.

"Trust you to wake up when I'm talking about cake!" He grinned. A weak smirk pulled at the ill man's mouth.

Bending down, he placed a gentle but longing kiss against the other man's dry lips. Reaching up, he pressed the nurse's call button.

"God," He sighed in relief. A part of him had been certain that Mycroft would never wake up, "I love you, Mycroft."

A smile lit up his face, "I love you too." He rasped, the sounds just barely coming out.


End file.
